"Fool!" it said, "how can you hesitate? Here is your position: youhave made a contract which must be filled; you are already behind,and in a hopeless mental state. Even granting that between this andto-morrow morning you could put together the necessary number ofwords to fill the space allotted to you, what kind of a thing do youthink that story would make? It would be a mere raving like thatother precious effort of August. The public, if by some odd chanceit ever reached them, would think your mind was utterly gone; yourreputation would go with that verdict. On the other hand, if you donot have the story ready by to-morrow, your hold on the _Idler_ willbe destroyed. They have their announcements printed, and your nameand portrait appear among those of the prominent contributors. Doyou suppose the editor and publisher will look leniently upon yourfailure?"

"Considering my past record, yes," I replied. "I have never yetbroken a promise to them."

"Which is precisely the reason why they will be severe with you.You, who have been regarded as one of the few men who can do almostany kind of literary work at will--you, of whom it is said that your'brains are on tap'--will they be lenient with _you?_ Bah! Can't yousee that the very fact of your invariable readiness heretofore isgoing to make your present unreadiness a thing incomprehensible?"

"Then what shall I do?" I asked. "If I can't, I can't, that is all."

"You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will dofor you. It is one of the immortal stories--"

"It is the same," it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug."You and I are inseparable. Aren't you glad?" it added, with a laughthat grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed toreply, and it resumed: "It is one of the immortal stories. We agreeto that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuffyou write yourself will give you present glory; but when you havebeen dead ten years people won't remember your name even--unless Iget control of you, and in that case there is a very pretty thoughhardly a literary record in store for you."

Again it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in the pillows of mycouch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision.

"Curious," it said. "What you call your decent self doesn't darelook me in the eye! What a mistake people make who say that the manwho won't look you in the eye is not to be trusted! As if merebrazenness were a sign of honesty; really, the theory of decency isthe most amusing thing in the world. But come, time is growingshort. Take that story. The writer gave it to you. Begged you to useit as your own. It is yours. It will make your reputation, and saveyou with your publishers. How can you hesitate?"

"Not a bit of it. Whom do you rob? A man who voluntarily came toyou, and gave you that of which you rob him. Think of it as it is--and act, only act quickly. It is now midnight."

The tempter rose up and walked to the other end of the room, whence,while he pretended to be looking over a few of my books andpictures, I was aware he was eyeing me closely, and graduallycompelling me by sheer force of will to do a thing which I abhorred.And I--I struggled weakly against the temptation, but gradually,little by little, I yielded, and finally succumbed altogether.Springing to my feet, I rushed to the table, seized my pen, andsigned my name to the story.

"There!" I said. "It is done. I have saved my position and made myreputation, and am now a thief!"

[Illustration: "DOESN'T DARE TO LOOK ME IN THE EYE"]

"As well as a fool," said the other, calmly. "You don't mean to sayyou are going to send that manuscript in as it is?"

"Good Lord!" I cried. "What under heaven have you been trying tomake me do for the last half hour?"

"Act like a sane being," said the demon. "If you send thatmanuscript to Currier he'll know in a minute it isn't yours. Heknows you haven't an amanuensis, and that handwriting isn't yours.Copy it."

"True!" I answered. "I haven't much of a mind for details to-night.I will do as you say."

I did so. I got out my pad and pen and ink, and for three hoursdiligently applied myself to the task of copying the story. When itwas finished I went over it carefully, made a few minor corrections,signed it, put it in an envelope, addressed it to you, stamped it,and went out to the mail-box on the corner, where I dropped it intothe slot, and returned home. When I had returned to my library myvisitor was still there.

"Well," it said, "I wish you'd hurry and complete this affair. I amtired, and wish to go."

"You can't go too soon to please me," said I, gathering up theoriginal manuscripts of the story and preparing to put them away inmy desk.

"Probably not," it sneered. "I'll be glad to go too, but I can't gountil that manuscript is destroyed. As long as it exists there isevidence of your having appropriated the work of another. Why, can'tyou see that? Burn it!"

"I can't see my way clear in crime!" I retorted. "It is not in myline."

Nevertheless, realizing the value of his advice, I thrust the pagesone by one into the blazing log fire, and watched them as theyflared and flamed and grew to ashes. As the last page disappeared inthe embers the demon vanished. I was alone, and throwing myself downfor a moment's reflection upon my couch, was soon lost in sleep.

It was noon when I again opened my eyes, and, ten minutes after Iawakened, your telegraphic summons reached me.

"Come down at once," was what you said, and I went; and then camethe terrible _dénouement,_ and yet a _dénouement_ which was pleasingto me since it relieved my conscience. You handed me the envelopecontaining the story.

"I did--last night, or rather early this morning. I mailed it aboutthree o'clock," I replied.

"I demand an explanation of your conduct," said you.

"Of what?" I asked.

"Look at your so-called story and see. If this is a practical joke,Thurlow, it's a damned poor one."

I opened the envelope and took from it the sheets I had sent you--twenty-four of them.

_They were every one of them as blank as when they left the paper-mill!_

You know the rest. You know that I tried to speak; that my utterancefailed me; and that, finding myself unable at the time to control myemotions, I turned and rushed madly from the office, leaving themystery unexplained. You know that you wrote demanding asatisfactory explanation of the situation or my resignation fromyour staff.

This, Currier, is my explanation. It is all I have. It is absolutetruth. I beg you to believe it, for if you do not, then is mycondition a hopeless one. You will ask me perhaps for a _résumé_ ofthe story which I thought I had sent you.

It is my crowning misfortune that upon that point my mind is anabsolute blank. I cannot remember it in form or in substance. I haveracked my brains for some recollection of some small portion of itto help to make my explanation more credible, but, alas! it will notcome back to me. If I were dishonest I might fake up a story to suitthe purpose, but I am not dishonest. I came near to doing anunworthy act; I did do an unworthy thing, but by some mysteriousprovision of fate my conscience is cleared of that.

Be sympathetic Currier, or, if you cannot, be lenient with me thistime. _Believe, believe, believe_, I implore you. Pray let me hearfrom you at once.

(_Being a Note from George Currier, Editor of the "Idler" to HenryThurlow, Author_.)

Your explanation has come to hand. As an explanation it isn't worththe paper it is written on, but we are all agreed here that it isprobably the best bit of fiction you ever wrote. It is accepted forthe Christmas issue. Enclosed please find check for one hundreddollars.

Dawson suggests that you take another month up in the Adirondacks.You might put in your time writing up some account of that dream-life you are leading while you are there. It seems to me there arepossibilities in the idea. The concern will pay all expenses. Whatdo you say?

(Signed) Yours ever, G. C. THE DAMPMERE MYSTERY

Dawson wished to be alone; he had a tremendous bit of writing to do,which could not be done in New York, where his friends wereconstantly interrupting him, and that is why he had taken the littlecottage at Dampmere for the early spring months. The cottage justsuited him. It was remote from the village of Dampmere, and therental was suspiciously reasonable; he could have had a ninety-nineyears' lease of it for nothing, had he chosen to ask for it, andwould promise to keep the premises in repair; but he was not awareof that fact when he made his arrangements with the agent. Indeed,there was a great deal that Dawson was not aware of when he took theplace. If there hadn't been he never would have thought of goingthere, and this story would not have been written.

It was late in March when, with his Chinese servant and his mastiff,he entered into possession and began the writing of the story he hadin mind. It was to be the effort of his life. People reading itwould forget Thackeray and everybody else, and would, furthermore,never wish to see another book. It was to be the literature of alltime--past and present and future; in it all previous work was to beforgotten, all future work was to be rendered unnecessary.

For three weeks everything went smoothly enough, and the work uponthe great story progressed to the author's satisfaction; but asEaster approached something queer seemed to develop in the Dampmerecottage. It was undefinable, intangible, invisible, but it wasthere. Dawson's hair would not stay down. When he rose up in themorning he would find every single hair on his head standing erect,and plaster it as he would with his brushes dipped in water, itcould not be induced to lie down again. More inconvenient than this,his silken mustache was affected in the same way, so that instead ofdrooping in a soft fascinating curl over his lip, it also rose uplike a row of bayonets and lay flat against either side of his nose;and with this singular hirsute affliction there came into Dawson'sheart a feeling of apprehension over something, he knew not what,that speedily developed into an uncontrollable terror that pervadedhis whole being, and more thoroughly destroyed his ability to workupon his immortal story than ten inconsiderate New York friendsdropping in on him in his busy hours could possibly have done.

"What the dickens is the matter with me?" he said to himself, as forthe sixteenth time he brushed his rebellious locks. "What has comeover my hair? And what under the sun am I afraid of? The idea of aman of my size looking under the bed every night for--for something--burglar, spook, or what I don't know. Waking at midnight shiveringwith fear, walking in the broad light of day filled with terror; byJove! I almost wish I was Chung Lee down in the kitchen, who goesabout his business undisturbed."

[Illustration: "IT WAS TO BE THE EFFORT OF HIS LIFE"]

Having said this, Dawson looked about him nervously. If he hadexpected a dagger to be plunged into his back by an unseen foe hecould not have looked around more anxiously; and then he fled,actually fled in terror into the kitchen, where Chung Lee waspreparing his dinner. Chung was only a Chinaman, but he was a livingcreature, and Dawson was afraid to be alone.

"Well, Chung," he said, as affably as he could, "this is a pleasantchange from New York, eh?"

Clearly there was no comfort for Dawson here. To rid him of hisfears it was evident that Chung could be of no assistance, andChung's feeling that even Jack was affected by the uncanny somethingwas by no means reassuring. Dawson went out into the yard andwhistled for the dog, and in a moment the magnificent animal camebounding up. Dawson patted him on the back, but Jack, instead ofrejoicing as was his wont over this token of his master's affection,gave a yelp of pain, which was quite in accord with Dawson's ownfeelings, for gentle though the pat was, his hand after it felt asthough he had pressed it upon a bunch of needles.

"What's the matter, old fellow?" said Dawson, ruefully rubbing thepalm of his hand. "Did I hurt you?"

The dog tried to wag his tail, but unavailingly, and Dawson wasagain filled with consternation to observe that even as Chung'squeue stood high, even as his own hair would not lie down, so it waswith Jack's soft furry skin. Every hair on it was erect, from thetip of the poor beast's nose to the end of his tail, and so stiffwithal that when it was pressed from without it pricked the dogwithin.

"There seems to be some starch in the air of Dampmere," said Dawson,thoughtfully, as he turned and walked slowly into the house. "Iwonder what the deuce it all means?"

And then he sought his desk and tried to write, but he soon foundthat he could not possibly concentrate his mind upon his work. Hewas continually oppressed by the feeling that he was not alone. Atone moment it seemed as if there were a pair of eyes peering at himfrom the northeast corner of the room, but as soon as he turned hisown anxious gaze in that direction the difficulty seemed to lie inthe southwest corner.

"Bah!" he cried, starting up and stamping his foot angrily upon thefloor. "The idea! I, Charles Dawson, a man of the world, scared by--by--well, by nothing. I don't believe in ghosts--and yet--at times Ido believe that this house is haunted. My hair seems to feel thesame way. It stands up like stubble in a wheat-field, and one mightas well try to brush the one as the other. At this rate nothing'llget done. I'll go to town and see Dr. Bronson. There's something thematter with me."

So off Dawson went to town.

"I suppose Bronson will think I'm a fool, but I can prove all I sayby my hair," he said, as he rang the doctor's bell. He was instantlyadmitted, and shortly after describing his symptoms he called thedoctor's attention to his hair.

If he had pinned his faith to this, he showed that his faith wasmisplaced, for when the doctor came to examine it, Dawson's hair waslying down as softly as it ever had. The doctor looked at Dawson fora moment, and then, with a dry cough, he said:

[Illustration: "WHEN HE ROSE UP IN THE MORNING HE WOULD FIND EVERYSINGLE HAIR ON HIS HEAD STANDING ERECT"]

"Dawson, I can conclude one of two things from what you tell me.Either Dampmere is haunted, which you and I as sane men can'tbelieve in these days, or else you are playing a practical joke onme. Now I don't mind a practical joke at the club, my dear fellow,but here, in my office hours, I can't afford the time to likeanything of the sort. I speak frankly with you, old fellow. I haveto. I hate to do it, but, after all, you've brought it on yourself."

"Doctor," Dawson rejoined, "I believe I'm a sick man, else thisthing wouldn't have happened. I solemnly assure you that I've cometo you because I wanted a prescription, and because I believe myselfbadly off."

"You carry it off well, Dawson," said the doctor, severely, "butI'll prescribe. Go back to Dampmere right away, and when you've seenthe ghost, telegraph me and I'll come down."

With this Bronson bowed Dawson out, and the latter, poor fellow,soon found himself on the street utterly disconsolate. He could notblame Bronson. He could understand how Bronson could come to believethat, with his hair as the only witness to his woes, and a witnessthat failed him at the crucial moment, Bronson should regard hisvisit as the outcome of some club wager, in many of which he hadbeen involved previously.

"I guess his advice is good," said he, as he walked along. "I'll goback right away--but meanwhile I'll get Billie Perkins to come outand spend the night with me, and we'll try it on him. I'll ask himout for a few days."

Suffice it to say that Perkins accepted, and that night found thetwo eating supper together outwardly serene. Perkins was quiteinterested when Chung brought in the supper.

"Wears his queue Pompadour, I see," he said, as he glanced atChung's extraordinary head-dress.

[Illustration: "'WEARS HIS QUEUE POMPADOUR, I SEE'"]

"Yes," said Dawson, shortly.

"You wear your hair that way yourself," he added, for he was pleasedas well as astonished to note that Perkins's hair was manifesting anupward tendency.

"Nonsense," said Perkins. "It's flat as a comic paper."

"Look at yourself in the glass," said Dawson.

Perkins obeyed. There was no doubt about it. His hair was rising! Hestarted back uneasily.

"Dawson," he cried, "what is it? I've felt queer ever since Ientered your front door, and I assure you I've been wondering whyyou wore your mustache like a pirate all the evening."

"I can't account for it. I've got the creeps myself," said Dawson,and then he told Perkins all that I have told you.

"Let's--let's go back to New York," said Perkins.

"Can't," replied Dawson. "No train."

"Then," said Perkins, with a shiver, "let's go to bed."

The two men retired, Dawson to the room directly over the parlor,Perkins to the apartment back of it. For company they left the gasburning, and in a short time were fast asleep. An hour later Dawsonawakened with a start. Two things oppressed him to the very core ofhis being. First, the gas was out; and second, Perkins hadunmistakably groaned.

"Not by a great deal. I feel as if I had been sleeping on aporcupine. Light up the gas and let's see what the trouble is."

Dawson did as he was told, wondering meanwhile why the gas had goneout. No one had turned it out, and yet the key was unmistakablyturned; and, what was worse, on ripping open Perkins's mattress, amost disquieting state of affairs was disclosed.

_Every single hair in it was standing on end!_

A half-hour later four figures were to be seen wending their waynorthward through the darkness--two men, a huge mastiff, and aChinaman. The group was made up of Dawson, his guest, his servant,and his dog. Dampmere was impossible; there was no train untilmorning, but not one of them was willing to remain a moment longerat Dampmere, and so they had to walk.

"What do you suppose it was?" asked Perkins, as they left the thirdmile behind them.

"I don't know," said Dawson; "but it must be something terrible. Idon't mind a ghost that will make the hair of living beings stand onend, but a nameless invisible something that affects a mattress thatway has a terrible potency that I have no desire to combat. It's amystery, and, as a rule, I like mysteries, but the mystery ofDampmere I'd rather let alone."

"Don't say a word about the--ah--the mattress, Charlie," saidPerkins, after awhile. "The fellows'll never believe it."

"No. I was thinking that very same thing," said Dawson.

And they were both true to Dawson's resolve, which is possibly whythe mystery of Dampmere has never been solved.

If any of my readers can furnish a solution, I wish they would doso, for I am very much interested in the case, and I truly hate toleave a story of this kind in so unsatisfactory a condition.

A ghost story without any solution strikes me as being about asuseful as a house without a roof.

CARLETON BARKER, FIRST AND SECOND

My first meeting with Carleton Barker was a singular one. A friendand I, in August, 18--, were doing the English Lake District onfoot, when, on nearing the base of the famous Mount Skiddaw, weobserved on the road, some distance ahead of us, limping along andapparently in great pain, the man whose subsequent career so sorelypuzzled us. Noting his very evident distress, Parton and I quickenedour pace and soon caught up with the stranger, who, as we reachedhis side, fell forward upon his face in a fainting condition--aswell he might, for not only must he have suffered great agony from asprained ankle, but inspection of his person disclosed a mostextraordinary gash in his right arm, made apparently with a sharpknife, and which was bleeding most profusely. To stanch the flow ofblood was our first care, and Parton, having recently been graduatedin medicine, made short work of relieving the sufferer's pain fromhis ankle, bandaging it about and applying such soothing propertiesas he had in his knapsack--properties, by the way, with which,knowing the small perils to which pedestrians everywhere are liable,he was always provided.

Our patient soon recovered his senses and evinced no littlegratitude for the service we had rendered him, insisting upon ouraccepting at his hands, merely, he said, as a souvenir of our good-Samaritanship, and as a token of his appreciation of the same, asmall pocket-flask and an odd diamond-shaped stone pierced in thecentre, which had hung from the end of his watch-chain, held inplace by a minute gold ring. The flask became the property ofParton, and to me fell the stone, the exact hue of which I was neverable to determine, since it was chameleonic in its properties. Whenit was placed in my hands by our "grateful patient" it was blood-red; when I looked upon it on the following morning it was of alivid, indescribable hue, yet lustrous as an opal. To-day it iscolorless and dull, as though some animating quality that it hadonce possessed had forever passed from it.

"You seem to have met with an accident," said Parton, when theinjured man had recovered sufficiently to speak.

"Yes," he said, wincing with pain, "I have. I set out for Saddlebackthis morning--I wished to visit the Scales Tarn and get a glimpse ofthose noonday stars that are said to make its waters lustrous, and--"

"And to catch the immortal fish?" I queried.

"No," he replied, with a laugh. "I should have been satisfied to seethe stars--and I did see the stars, but not the ones I set out tosee. I have always been more or less careless of my safety, walkingwith my head in the clouds and letting my feet look out forthemselves. The result was that I slipped on a moss-covered stoneand fell over a very picturesque bit of scenery on to some morestones that, unfortunately, were not moss-covered."

"But the cut in your arm?" said Parton, suspiciously. "That looks asif somebody else had given it to you."

The stranger's face flushed as red as could be considering theamount of blood he had lost, and a look of absolute devilishnessthat made my flesh creep came into his eyes. For a moment he did notspeak, and then, covering the delay in his answer with a groan ofanguish, he said:

"Oh, that! Yes--I--I did manage to cut myself rather badly and--"

"I don't see how you could, though," insisted Parton. "You couldn'treach that part of yourself with a knife, if you tried."

"That's just the reason why you should see for yourself that it wascaused by my falling on my knife. I had it grasped in my right hand,intending to cut myself a stick, when I slipped. As I slipped itflew from my hand and I landed on it, fortunately on the edge andnot on the point," he explained, his manner far from convincing,though the explanation seemed so simple that to doubt it wereuseless.

"Did you recover the knife?" asked Parton. "It must have been amighty sharp one, and rather larger than most people carry aboutwith them on excursions like yours."

"I am not on the witness-stand, sir," returned the other, somewhatpetulantly, "and so I fail to see why you should question me soclosely in regard to so simple a matter--as though you suspected meof some wrongdoing."

"My friend is a doctor," I explained; for while I was quite as muchinterested in the incident, its whys and wherefores, as was Parton,I had myself noticed that he was suspicious of his chance patient,and seemingly not so sympathetic as he would otherwise have been."He regards you as a case."

"Not at all," returned Parton. "I am simply interested to know howyou hurt yourself--that is all. I mean no offence, I am sure, and ifanything I have said has hurt your feelings I apologize."

"Don't mention it, doctor," replied the other, with an uneasy smile,holding his left hand out towards Parton as he spoke. "I am in greatpain, as you know, and perhaps I seem irritable. I'm not an amiableman at best; as for the knife, in my agony I never thought to lookfor it again, though I suppose if I had looked I should not havefound it, since it doubtless fell into the underbrush out of sight.Let it rest there. It has not done me a friendly service to-day andI shall waste no tears over it."

With which effort at pleasantry he rose with some difficulty to hisfeet, and with the assistance of Parton and myself walked on andinto Keswick, where we stopped for the night. The strangerregistered directly ahead of Parton and myself, writing the words,"Carleton Barker, Calcutta," in the book, and immediately retired tohis room, nor did we see him again that night. After supper welooked for him, but as he was nowhere to be seen, we concluded thathe had gone to bed to seek the recuperation of rest. Parton and Ilit our cigars and, though somewhat fatigued by our exertions,strolled quietly about the more or less somnolent burg in which wewere, discussing the events of the day, and chiefly our newacquaintance.

"I don't half like that fellow," said Parton, with a dubious shakeof the head. "If a dead body should turn up near or on Skiddawto-morrow morning, I wouldn't like to wager that Mr. Carleton Barkerhadn't put it there. He acted to me like a man who had something toconceal, and if I could have done it without seeming ungracious, I'dhave flung his old flask as far into the fields as I could. I'vehalf a mind to show my contempt for it now by filling it with someof that beastly claret they have at the _table d'hôte_ here, andchucking the whole thing into the lake. It was an insult to offerthose things to us."

"I think you are unjust, Parton," I said. "He certainly did look asif he had been in a maul with somebody. There was a nasty scratch onhis face, and that cut on the arm was suspicious; but I can't seebut that his explanation was clear enough. Your manner was tooirritating. I think if I had met with an accident and was assistedby an utter stranger who, after placing me under obligations to him,acted towards me as though I were an unconvicted criminal, I'd be asmad as he was; and as for the insult of his offering, in my eyesthat was the only way he could soothe his injured feelings. He wasangry at your suspicions, and to be entirely your debtor forservices didn't please him. His gift to me was made simply becausehe did not wish to pay you in substance and me in thanks."

"I don't go so far as to call him an unconvicted criminal, but I'llswear his record isn't clear as daylight, and I'm morally convincedthat if men's deeds were written on their foreheads Carleton Barker,esquire, would wear his hat down over his eyes. I don't like him. Iinstinctively dislike him. Did you see the look in his eyes when Imentioned the knife?"

"It turned every drop of blood in my veins cold," said Parton. "Itmade me feel that if he had had that knife within reach he wouldhave trampled it to powder, even if every stamp of his foot cut hisflesh through to the bone. Malignant is the word to describe thatglance, and I'd rather encounter a rattle-snake than see it again."

Parton spoke with such evident earnestness that I took refuge insilence. I could see just where a man of Parton's temperament--whichwas cold and eminently judicial even when his affections wereconcerned--could find that in Barker at which to cavil, but, for allthat, I could not sympathize with the extreme view he took of hischaracter. I have known many a man upon whose face nature has setthe stamp of the villain much more deeply than it was impressed uponBarker's countenance, who has lived a life most irreproachable,whose every act has been one of unselfishness and for the good ofmankind; and I have also seen outward appearing saints whose everyinstinct was base; and it seemed to me that the physiognomy of theunfortunate victim of the moss-covered rock and vindictive knife wasjust enough of a medium between that of the irredeemable sinner andthe sterling saint to indicate that its owner was the average man inthe matter of vices and virtues. In fact, the malignancy of hisexpression when the knife was mentioned was to me the sole pointagainst him, and had I been in his position I do not think I shouldhave acted very differently, though I must add that if I thoughtmyself capable of freezing any person's blood with an expression ofmy eyes I should be strongly tempted to wear blue glasses when incompany or before a mirror.

"I think I'll send my card up to him, Jack," I said to Parton, whenwe had returned to the hotel, "just to ask how he is. Wouldn't you?"

"No!" snapped Parton. "But then I'm not you. You can do as youplease. Don't let me influence you against him--if he's to yourtaste."

"He isn't at all to my taste," I retorted. "I don't care for himparticularly, but it seems to me courtesy requires that we show alittle interest in his welfare."

"Be courteous, then, and show your interest," said Parton. "I don'tcare as long as I am not dragged into it."

I sent my card up by the boy, who, returning in a moment, said thatthe door was locked, adding that when he had knocked upon it therecame no answer, from which he presumed that Mr. Barker had gone tosleep.

"He seemed all right when you took his supper to his room?" Iqueried.

"He said he wouldn't have any supper. Just wanted to be left alone,"said the boy.

"Sulking over the knife still, I imagine," sneered Parton; and thenhe and I retired to our room and prepared for bed.

I do not suppose I had slept for more than an hour when I wasawakened by Parton, who was pacing the floor like a caged tiger, hiseyes all ablaze, and laboring under an intense nervous excitement.

"More than is decent," ejaculated Parton. "More than is decent. Hehas just been peering in through that window there, and he means nogood."

"Why, you're mad," I remonstrated. "He couldn't peer in at thewindow--we are on the fourth floor, and there is no possible way inwhich he could reach the window, much less peer in at it."

"Nevertheless," insisted Parton, "Carleton Barker for ten minutesprevious to your waking was peering in at me through that windowthere, and in his glance was that same malignant, hateful qualitythat so set me against him to-day--and another thing, Bob," addedParton, stopping his nervous walk for a moment and shaking hisfinger impressively at me--"another thing which I did not tell youbefore because I thought it would fill you with that same awfuldread that has come to me since meeting Barker--the blood from thatman's arm, the blood that stained his shirt-sleeve crimson, thatbesmeared his clothes, spurted out upon my cuff and coat-sleeve whenI strove to stanch its flow!"

"Yes, I remember that," said I.

"And now look at my cuff and sleeve!" whispered Parton, his facegrown white.

The mystery of Carleton Barker was by no means lessened when nextmorning it was found that his room not only was empty, but that, asfar as one could judge from the aspect of things therein, it had notbeen occupied at all. Furthermore, our chance acquaintance hadvanished, leaving no more trace of his whereabouts than if he hadnever existed.

"Good riddance," said Parton. "I am afraid he and I would have cometo blows sooner or later, because the mere thought of him wasbeginning to inspire me with a desire to thrash him. I'm sure hedeserves a trouncing, whoever he is."

I, too, was glad the fellow had passed out of our ken, but not forthe reason advanced by Parton. Since the discovery of the stainlesscuff, where marks of blood ought by nature to have been, I goose-fleshed at the mention of his name. There was something soinexpressibly uncanny about a creature having a fluid of that sortin his veins. In fact, so unpleasantly was I impressed by thatepisode that I was unwilling even to join in a search for themysteriously missing Barker, and by common consent Parton and Idropped him entirely as a subject for conversation.

We spent the balance of our week at Keswick, using it as our head-quarters for little trips about the surrounding country, which ismost charmingly adapted to the wants of those inclined topedestrianism, and on Sunday evening began preparations for ourdeparture, discarding our knickerbockers and resuming thehabiliments of urban life, intending on Monday morning to run up toEdinburgh, there to while away a few days before starting for ashort trip through the Trossachs.

While engaged in packing our portmanteaux there came a sharp knockat the door, and upon opening it I found upon the hall floor anenvelope addressed to myself. There was no one anywhere in the hall,and, so quickly had I opened the door after the knock, that factmystified me. It would hardly have been possible for any person,however nimble of foot, to have passed out of sight in the periodwhich had elapsed between the summons and my response.

"What is it?" asked Parton, observing that I was slightly agitated.

"Nothing," I said, desirous of concealing from him the matter thatbothered me, lest I should be laughed at for my pains. "Nothing,except a letter for me."

"Not by post, is it?" he queried; to which he added, "Can't be.There is no mail here to-day. Some friend?"

"I don't know," I said, trying, in a somewhat feminine fashion, tosolve the authorship of the letter before opening it by staring atthe superscription. "I don't recognize the handwriting at all."

I then opened the letter, and glancing hastily at the signature wasfilled with uneasiness to see who my correspondent was.

"On suspicion of having murdered an innkeeper in the South ofEngland on Tuesday, August 16th."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that I believe he was guilty," returnedParton, without reflecting that the 16th day of August was the dayupon which he and I had first encountered Barker.

"That's your prejudice, Jack," said I. "If you'll think a minuteyou'll know he was innocent. He was here on August 16th--lastTuesday. It was then that you and I saw him for the first timelimping along the road and bleeding from a wound in the shoulder."

"Was Tuesday the 16th?" said Parton, counting the days backward onhis fingers. "That's a fact. It was--but it's none of my affairanyhow. It is too blessed queer for me to mix myself up in it, and Isay let him languish in jail. He deserved it for something, I amsure-"

"Well, I'm not so confoundedly heartless," I returned, pounding thetable with my fist, indignant that Parton should allow hisprejudices to run away with his sense of justice. "I'm going toLondon to do as he asks."

"What does he want you to do? Prove an alibi?"

"Precisely; and I'm going and you're going, and I shall see if thelandlord here won't let me take one of his boys along to support ourtestimony--at my own expense if need be."

"You're right, old chap," returned Parton, after a moment ofinternal struggle. "I suppose we really ought to help the fellow outof his scrape; but I'm decidedly averse to getting mixed up in anaffair of any kind with a man like Carleton Barker, much less in anaffair with murder in it. Is he specific about the murder?"

"No. He refers me to the London papers of the 17th and 18th fordetails. He hadn't time to write more, because he comes up forexamination on Tuesday morning, and as our presence is essential tohis case he was necessarily hurried."

"How about Barker's luck?" I asked. "He isn't fighting for aScottish trip--he's fighting for his life."

And so it happened that on Monday morning, instead of starting forEdinburgh, we boarded the train for London at Car-lisle. We tried toget copies of the newspapers containing accounts of the crime thathad been committed, but our efforts were unavailing, and it was notuntil we arrived in London and were visited by Barker's attorneysthat we obtained any detailed information whatsoever of the murder;and when we did get it we were more than ever regretful to be mixedup in it, for it was an unusually brutal murder. Strange to say, theevidence against Barker was extraordinarily convincing, consideringthat at the time of the commission of the crime he was hundreds ofmiles from the scene. There was testimony from railway guards,neighbors of the murdered innkeeper, and others, that it was Barkerand no one else who committed the crime. His identification wascomplete, and the wound in his shoulder was shown almost beyond thepossibility of doubt to have been inflicted by the murdered man inself-defence.

"Our only hope," said the attorney, gravely, "is in proving analibi. I do not know what to believe myself, the chain of evidenceagainst my client is so complete; and yet he asserts his innocence,and has stated to me that you two gentlemen could assist in provingit. If you actually encountered Carleton Barker in the neighborhoodof Keswick on the 16th of this month, the whole case against himfalls to the ground. If not, I fear his outlook has the gallows atthe small end of the perspective."

"We certainly did meet a Carleton Barker at Keswick on Tuesday,August 16th," returned Parton; "and he was wounded in the shoulder,and his appearance was what might have been expected of one who hadbeen through just such a frightful murder as we understand this tohave been; but this was explained to us as due to a fall over rocksin the vicinity of the Scales Tarn--which was plausible enough tosatisfy my friend here."